Boo

'There is a bitter vacuum that surfaces every time I go out for a stroll', the three-eyed onion that sits across me muses. 'I feel like making others cry for what they have done and are doing to me'

'What are they doing to you?' I ask him, hands interlocked, a mild lunge forward, feigning earnestness.

'They are peeling me, layer after layer. Honestly, every time I break down I believe it cannot get any worse. But it does'

It's two eyes gaze dispassionately at the ornate ceiling of my apartment while the third bores down on me. 'It's amusing as much as its depressing. Do you think you can prescribe some pills for me?'

'To an onion?'

All three eyes are on me. 'That's racist'

'I'm just saying. There is no way you could ingest a pill'

It hesitates and resigns itself to a shrug of the shoulders. 'Could you at least do something that could get me through these days and nights without inflicting any more harm upon myself?'

'Well, I could put you in a pan, slice you into little pieces, add some ghee and fry till you turn golden-brown, sprinkle a bit of salt and devour you tonight'

Silence is agreement.